Too Weak to Keep Holding On
by RainWillMakeTheFlowersGrow
Summary: Crutchie's gone, the strike failed, and Jack Kelley is left alone to take the blame. My first story for Newsies, so be nice! Read and review please? Rated T for a bit of language.


**Hi! I recently saw Newsies on Broadway (I got to meet the cast. Best time of my life. And I got hugged by Aaron Albano, who plays Finch, my favorite character. They are all super sweet and nice and it was an awesome experience!), and my long love of this musical coupled with that inspired me to try and write fanfiction for it. Please forgive me for any mistakes in characterization, chronology, or anything else- I haven't researched it very much. I hope you all enjoy!**

**-Marsillaise**

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_Crack._ Angrily, Jack punched the railing. The tips of his ears reddened, and he cursed himself. He was an idiot and a coward. Fighting back tears- tears! Jack Kelley never cried- he sank to the ground, cradling his hand. Three of his knuckles were skinned, but aside from that and a budding bruise, nothing serious. It hurt, but he ignored it.

He had promised to see them all through. Promised that it would turn out okay, that they would even win. And not only had he promised the collection of newsies in general, but Crutchie...

Ghosts of the words he had said to the boy yesterday played back in his mind. _Would I let you down? No way._ Let him down. And yet that had been exactly what he, Jack Kelley, had done as he ran away, glancing behind to see his best friend be beaten with his own crutch.

Beaten, and for what? _Because they could_, he answered himself. The Delancey twins were evil. Not caring if he was blowing it out of proportion, he cursed them, too. Crutchie was fifteen. He had been doing nothing illegal- according to Davey- and yet had been run over and laughed at. All Jack's fault, every bit of it.

They had, no doubt, taken him to the Refuge. Refuge, ha! The streets themselves were more of a refuge than that filthy old place. Shuddering, Jack recalled his own years at the horrid shelter. His cell- he refused to think of it as a room- had just a single window, through which the young boy would stare up at the moon on clear nights and dream longingly of faraway escapes. New York City seemed a death pit, a stinking hole of a place that harbored corrupt politicians and homeless and everything in between. Jack hated it all. As a young boy, he thirsted for adventure; as he grew up, he dreamed of it. There is a distinct difference between thirsting and dreaming. Thirsting is caused when one truly believes one can accomplish something, if only they try hard enough. But dreaming, anyone can do. All it takes is a desire for more, a desire to escape- be it a time, a place, or an opinion. The difference- a dreamer knows that he is beaten, and yet he continues to long.

Also in his cell at the Refuge was three-tiered bunk bed, but it had to hold nine boys. During the day, they had used bits and pieces of things to play games, but night was the worst. The city that never sleeps doesn't go silent after dusk either. Streetcars, shouting, and the frequent drunk that wandered the streets all clamored and yearned for attention. Jack would stare down at them, long after curfew, and lament that he would rather be a drunkard than a prisoner. Rather a failure than one under unfair laws. Above all, perhaps, he just wanted to think for himself, to live, to breathe. Not in the sense of in, out, constantly inhaling, but to whistle and shout in fresh air, air that he didn't have to share with others.

Only two boys could sleep on a bunk, and the other three would fight it out for the blanket on the ground. These battles often involved blood, and encouraged violence. As a child, Jack had been small, not getting his growth spurt until he was about fifteen, and he recalled hundreds of cold nights, fighting back tears as he curled into a ball to warm himself with his own body heat. This tortuous treatment eventually hardened him. Life, he decided, was not always fair. You had to make your own way, or else fall to the bottom of the food chain.

Rats, too, inhabited the Refuge. Their sharp little feet and matted, dirty fur was an unpleasant enough awakening, but once you realized one was on you, you had to keep perfectly still lest it startle and bite you. Never would he forget waking in the middle of the night to scratching little claws and the knowledge that even a rat could beat him.

Head in his hands, Jack clenched his jaw at the thought of Crutchie in that terrible place. The poor boy was only fifteen, and scrawny, not to mention he couldn't move ten feet without his crutch. He was defiant, too, and loyal, but he wouldn't last long. The Refuge would break him, as it had broken so many. Jack had been there long enough to see it happen. They would start out strong, but like a flame that quickly uses up its oil, they would fade, and be lost to the world.

Eyes blazing with sudden fury, Jack remembered Oscar Delancey laughing as he used the crippled boy's own crutch to hit him. The scene replayed before his eyes yet again; perhaps the hundredth time. Crutchie had gasped, shuddered, and pleaded in the half-second that Jack had seen, and then he was swept away with the crowd. Looking back once more, he made eye contact with the boy on the ground.  
_  
"Jack_," he had seen, rather than heard, Crutchie moan. And then Finch had grabbed his arm, shouting at him to hurry. The seemingly ever-present cigar had vanished, and the boy looked truly terrified for once.

As soon as he could, Jack had slipped away from the group, up to his "penthouse".

He had run away.

"Damn it all!" he screamed to the starry sky. The full moon seemed to taunt him, and he screamed again. "Damn the Delanceys, and Pulitzer, and this whole damn city. Damn..." he lowered his gaze. "Damn Santa Fe. I've been a fool. Damn all these stupid dreams, these hopes with no chance of fulfillment. Heck, if it were up t' me, I'd hop a train right now." Shuddering, he sobbed before continuing. "But I haven't got anything anymore, so go ahead. Take all I've got. My friends, my job, my family... my dreams."

With the last, broken sentence, he collapsed, sobbing and gasping. Santa Fe...sometimes the only thing keeping him from going. He remembered the first time he had heard of it, as a seven-year-old. A stranger had told him of the vast, orange prairies and tumbleweed, of the lapis lazuli sky, a sky that stretched from horizon to horizon without a cloud in sight. Santa Fe, the city made out of clay. /Santa Fe/, the dream of a poor boy. And it had let him down. What did he have in Santa Fe? There was no hope of getting there, no hope at all. All the wasted time spent fantasizing over it for nothing. Dreaming is lovely in and of itself, but after that...dreaming didn't buy bread. Dreaming didn't give you a dry place to sleep when it rained. All dreaming gave was false hopes of a place that may not have ever existed.

And now, to top it all, Crutchie was gone.

Standing up, tears still making striped tracks through the grime on his face, Jack made up his mind. Swinging down the ladder, he landed silently and began walking.

The familiar streets comforted him slightly. The pharmacist, the fruit stand, all marching up 17th avenue like they always had been. Still, as he neared the Refuge, a chill set in that wasn't from the gentle mist. A voice in his head screamed at him to turn, but he didn't heed it, or even entertain it, for a second.

His mind was set- if necessary, he would even trade places with Crutchie. But he had to see him at the very least.

Now he was at the hellhole itself. Sneaking around back, he climbed the fire escape ladder, peeking in the windows each time he passed one. On the third floor, he spied what he was looking for.

Crutchie- well, what was left of him- lay crumpled in a heap on the floor in a puddle of liquid moonlight. His crutch was next to him, the "strike" banner ripped off along with the crumpled and taped newspapers on the armrest that served to make the it more comfortable. Leaning dangerously far out to lean on the windowsill, he tapped sharply on the glass.

Crutchie was not, it seemed asleep. At the tap, he lifted his head. One eye opened, the other one swollen shut from a fresh bruise.

Jack felt his heart twist at the sight of the smaller boy, beaten and virtually alone in the world. He used one hand to motion for the cripple to move over to the window.

Crutchie smiled forlornly, and in the bright moonlight Jack could see he was missing a front tooth. But as he tried to move himself over, an expression of agony crossed his face and he shook his head. Tears, un-spilled, shined over his eyes, and Crutchie lowered his gaze.

The window, which opened from the outside, had a sticky latch, and Jack worked at it for several minutes before moving it. However, it creaked badly, and after an inch, he dared move it no further.

"I's alright," mumbled Crutchie, "jus' win, okay?"

Jack nodded, his hand digging into his pocket. He pulled out a scrap of paper, balled up, and threw it to his friend. Crutchie unballed it as Jack swung back onto the fire escape, the words written on it seeming to give him strength.

"Stay strong. We's gonna change the world."

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**Thanks so much for reading! Review? Comments, constructive criticism, awkward flailing over the fact that I hugged Aaron Albano, mistakes, etc are appreciated. Seizing the day,**

**Marseillaise **


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